Just a Mediocre Passion
by Haru-shira-kun
Summary: Jean was completely, utterly, stupidly, till-death-do-us-part in love with his best friend of twenty years. [Modern AU fluff]


**Just A Mediocre Passion**

Jean was completely, utterly, stupidly, till-death-do-us-part in love with his best friend of twenty years.

The realization felt like an odd combination of watching the sun peek through the clouds after weeks of rain and violently whacking his head on the upper bunk when he woke up. The sun because it was relieving to know that his chest felt clenched like this because of love and not some kind of prolonged heart attack. The upper-bunk-head-whack because he should have known it was there and it _really, really sucked._

You see, Jean and Marco were the kind of guys who were known throughout all their school years as having the most epic bromance ever. They were the kind of guys who rarely left each other's sides, often seen walking home together even though they lived in opposite directions. They were the kind of guys who would pass notes to each other in class at the age of sixteen. They were the kind of guys who went to each other's houses at ungodly hours of the morning and threw stones at the windows because they couldn't sleep and were bored. They were the kind of guys who never dated girls seriously or for a long time because they were so rarely apart that the girls could never remember which one of them they were supposed to be dating.

Hell, their parents probably couldn't even remember which one of them was their actual son.

But then, bam! They were eighteen. Jean went overseas to study music at NYU and Marco stayed behind to pursue a career as a pilot. And even though Marco had seen Jean off at the airport, and many badly-hidden tears were shed and many longer-than-is-actually-necessary hugs were exchanged, as we all know the story goes, things just changed.

They were no longer seeing each other every day. No one at NYU with Jean knew Marco. No one in flight school with Marco knew Jean. It wasn't like they could introduce others to them. They'd tried to keep in touch, going on Skype or Facebook or whatever given the chance (a difficult feat, considering the five-hour time difference and Marco's busy schedule), but as their first year went on their chats became less and less frequent and more and more brief.

There was one, a video chat in March of that first year that had gone something like this:

"Hey Jean."

"S'up Marco?"

Marco had actually looked up. "The ceiling. Which actually is reminding me that it's 2 a.m. and I have to do inspection in three hours."

"Oh. Okay. Sorry."

"It's fine. G'night Jean."

"See ya."

By the second year their talks came to be once a month at most, and by the fourth year they had stopped talking at all.

It was sometime around then, as he was graduating, that the dull ache had begun in Jean's chest. He had blamed it on stress.

However, he was never able to connect said dull ache with his treacherous brain, reminding him each and every day that Marco was still out there somewhere. He'd wonder what he was doing. He imagined him flying over some field in Scotland, eyes shining behind a massive pair of aviators as he looked down, in the middle of nowhere, to the ground thousands of feet below. He imagined him laughing over the radio with co-pilots and going out to dinner with technicians. He imagined him sitting at the library for hours on end like he used to, face buried in some engrossing book. He imagined that he'd probably forgotten about Jean by now. He never really thought to call.

That same treacherous brain, for some reason, kept trying to evade the subject of when in the world they would see each other again, where in the world they would see each other again, and what he would say or do when they did.

When his brain did get around to thinking about it, though, during that awkward, unguarded time between fully awake and fully asleep, what he imagined scared the living shit out of him. It was also what had led to his sunny-day-head-whacking feeling.

He imagined receiving a Facebook message from Marco:

"Hey guess what  
I'm interviewing for a job down in the Big Apple :)  
And you're picking me up from the airport okay?"

To which Jean would respond, "Anytime, text me."

And that would be that.

Marco would call him and Jean would drive 20 kilometers over the speed limit until he got there. This would be followed by the anxious tapping of fingers on his knee – would he still recognize Marco? Would Jean still recognize him? Would he be all pilot-y, whatever that meant? – until the screen lit up with "Arrived".

Jean would stand up, searching the exit for the telltale crop of neatly trimmed jet-black hair. Unless he'd dyed it of course. But that would be un-Marco-like.

Marco would emerge from the exit, looking tired and jetlagged and dragging a gigantic suitcase behind him. (And, knowing him, probably holding a book). Marco would glance around for him. Jean would smile and give him a lazy wave. They'd walk towards each other, stupid grins plastered on their faces. Marco would carefully put his stuff down before accepting Jean's bone-crushing hug. Jean would whisper "I missed you, man" into his ear. That would be weird, but so what. Marco would say "I missed you too" anyways.

Jean would let the other man go, watching him smile that heart-melting smile of his, never having dimmed even after five years of separation. Then Jean would proceed do something ridiculously stupid, just because he felt like it, like crushing their lips together and pushing Marco into the nearest wall he could find and fingers would grasp frantically because oh God he missed him so much and then Marco would start kissing back and-

Wait what?

Jean's eyes flew open. That wasn't possibly right. He couldn't be completely, utterly, stupidly, till-death-do-us-part in love with his best friend of twenty years.

But he was.

And really, it should have been obvious.

When he finally did get a message, after an entire year of pining and trying to ignore his confusion, it wasn't quite what he expected. Marco had called him.

"If this is another fucking telemarketer, I'm gonna throw my phone," he had said upon picking up. Needless to say it had been a bad day.

"Um…is this Jean?" a familiar voice had asked tentatively.

Jean straightened. "Marco?" he said. "Is that actually you? What's up, man?"

"A lot, actually, funny you should ask." Not the ceiling. Good. "I'm just letting you know I'm coming to the States."

The moisture in Jean's throat chose that particular moment to just disappear completely. When he could trust his voice again, he said, "Where to?"

"I don't know yet," Marco sighed. "I was actually wondering if– you know…if your place is big enough…"

"Yeah," Jean breathed, cutting the other off. "Of course. When's your flight?"

"I'm actually at the airport now," he said.

Jean rolled his eyes. Last-minute calls. He remembered those from high school. "When do you arrive? I'll get you."

There was a pause. "No, I mean I'm at JFK right now."

Jean didn't even take the time to hang up the phone.

Little did Jean know that during his first year of flight school, an equally pressuring ache in the chest had begun afflicting Marco as well. Marco had blamed it on the fact that he always forgot to bring his umbrella. The reasoning behind the latter was, and still is, a mystery.

Marco's brain, however (though having less room to think of anything other than flying so he put it off until his sixth year of bush piloting) was not so treacherous towards him. As soon as he did have the time, he had started pining almost immediately.

It really wasn't a far leap from there. People didn't pine this much for their friends, or log on to Facebook at four in the morning to check whether or not they were online, but never actually talk to them; or have fantasies about them both getting way out of society and eloping-but-not-actually-calling-it-that-because-only-lovers-eloped. People just didn't.

So, being smart and having read everything that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had ever written, Marco figured that "_once you eliminate the impossible_, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

And this is how he discovered that he was completely, utterly, stupidly, till-death-do-us-part in love with his best friend of twenty years.

Nothing had ever freaked him out more.

The entire world knows – thanks to society and the relentless bombardment of romantic comedies starring James Marsden – that being in love makes you do extremely irrational things. And like a true man of this nature, Marco had simply dropped everything and called a cab to take him to the airport.

"No, I mean I'm at JFK now."

He heard the muffled sound the phone being jammed into a pocket and of Jean's feet pattering away. He shook his head and laughed, hanging up his cell.

Jean walked through the doors of JFK, breathless and panting.

Marco yawned.

Jean found the Arrivals sign. Terminal 3.

Marco wondered if he should have actually brought a suitcase.

Jean saw Marco.

Marco didn't see Jean.

Jean called his name.

Marco turned his head at the sound of his name.

And just like that, the full force of six years of separation hit them simultaneously. In the stomach. With a baseball bat.

The way Marco wobbled a bit when he ran, his ridiculous goofy grin, his battered-but-immaculately-laced boots were exactly as they used to be. The way he always went over the left shoulder and under the right when they hugged was exactly as it used to be. The splash of freckles across his cheeks was exactly as it used to be.

Jean's lazy demeanor, his irreparably messy hairstyle, the crinkling at the corners of his eyes when he was happy hadn't changed a bit. The way he curled his fingers into the back of Marco's shirt hadn't changed a bit. The way his voice cracked when he was being honest, this time saying "it's been way too long" hadn't changed a bit.

Though, as they pulled back – still smiling – to examine each other more closely, they learned that there were some things about them that were new, too. Marco's cheek bore a scar that had not been there before. Jean had grown to be slightly taller than Marco. They both had stubble.

"I've missed you, man," Jean said, just as he'd imagined.

Marco laughed. "You? God, you have no idea. I've actually been pining." Because he was not one for pretense.

"Really," Jean said incredulously, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think that can beat how I've been. I thought I had a fucking heart disease." Because he was not one to back down from a challenge.

"You thought you had a heart disease in ninth grade after you ate that habanero pepper." Marco rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, well," Jean replied, "Ninth grade."

Marco smiled. He paused. "So I've been thinking a lot lately."

"Don't. Bad idea. Take it from me. Brains are the worst. They conspire to confuse us and fuck us up."

"That's funny. That's exactly how I've been feeling."

Jean looked down to see wide eyes regarding him curiously, eyes trying to decide on an expression to take. It was like watching the sun peek through the clouds after weeks of rain.

Marco looked up to see wide eyes regarding him in wonder, and it was like he'd finally remembered to bring his umbrella. The reasoning behind the latter was, and still is, a mystery.

Another new thing that Jean learned was the feeling of Marco's soft lips pressed against his dry ones, all gentle and sweet and tasting of London fog.

Not that he'd ever been to London or tasted fog but that's what it was.

So Jean just had to close his eyes and kiss back.

And, as we all know the story goes, everything was right.

(Until they realized they were kissing in the middle of JFK and garnering some very strange looks from foreign passer-bys.)

_Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fires._

-Francois de La Rochefoucauld-

**END**


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